Without You Living's just a waste of death
by Lassroyale
Summary: Percival swore that he would protect Arthur, always and forever - even at the cost of his own life.  WARNINGS: Character death, future!fic  King Arthur/Percival, established relationship


**A/N:**I want to be clear: this story contains character death. So if that sort of thing bothers you, you've been forewarned. Also, this was written before Series 4 of Merlin aired, so this idea of Percival is really just based off of the final episode of Series 3, what is written about him in the Arthurian Legends, and my own conjecture. ;) Still, that being said, I hope you guys enjoy!

**Without You (Living's just a waste of death)**

There's ringing in Arthur's ears, a resonate hum that kneads and pushes low in his skull; a throbbing din, a rolling pulse that's both distant and yet so close. He's on his knees; his helmet's lost. He moves, lurches, and the world spins out sickeningly beneath him, pitching and bucking in constant flux. He falls forward, catches himself with palms dug sharply into the churned earth underneath. The ground is wet, almost muddy as it cakes in the furrows of his gloves; the air smells of grass and rain and the stink of many bodies. A breeze drags across the nape of his neck, warm and damp like a balmy breath. It cards through the short grass, and worms in between the seething crush of men locked together in savage combat

Ozone coats the insides of Arthur's cheeks when he breathes in, sucking air through his teeth and tasting the moist, copper tang of violence saturating the atmosphere.

There is something wet collecting on the ends of his hair; he raises a shaking hand, brushes it across his temple, looks. There's a s smear of red across his glove, like a dark daub of paint. Arthur clenches his teeth, grinds them down, feels his jaw lock; he pushes down with one hand and heaves upwards. He staggers to his feet and his armor feels too heavy, too narrow around his chest. The metal bites sharply into his skin where his underclothes have ridden up. He feels naked without a weapon. Arthur wipes the blood from his eyes, looks left; Excalibur lies a few feet away.

The pounding in his head oscillates in nauseating syncopation as Arthur stumbles forward towards his weapon. He hears a rush of sound in his ears - the whine of the dying, the shouts of the nearly dead - and his hearing snaps back into brutal clarity, comes into painfully sharp focus. All at once the sounds of the battle waging around him surge back through his brain with the force of a crashing wave. The deluge of noise dizzies him, disorients him; Arthur stumbles, catches himself heavily on a knee, and is acutely aware that someone shouts his name. He turns his face towards the sound; sunlight lances into his eyes.

In that moment, something - _someone_- blindsides him: a human bundle of hate and fury encased in unyielding armor that bears the purple crest of a double-headed eagle. The impact of the collision - the wrenching screech of metal on metal - fills his ears. Arthur smashes into the dirt, cheek and shoulder gouging the earth, twisting his arm violently with a snap. There's no air in his lungs to scream; he can only grunt as pain shoots through him, bright and sudden.

Instinctively, he rolls onto his back, tastes blood pooling in the groove of his tongue and sliding down his throat. He blinks up: a man in dark armour looms over him, tall and wiry. He carries his hate in the taut set of his shoulders. Though the sun obliterates his face, Arthur knows who it is. "_Mordred_." He spits the name like a curse and jerks out with his good arm, his fingers brushing against the unnaturally warm metal of Excalibur's hilt. Mordred's heavy boot grinds down on his wrist; Arthur's cry of pain is choked off by a vicious kick to the ribs.

Somewhere above him, splitting through the air comes a fearsome bellow of deep, unshakable rage.

Mordred kicks him again, and then the boot eases off his wrist and crushes down instead on his chest. Arthur hears the scream again - his name - terrible and scared as it rises well above the din of battle. As the world darkens around him, he reaches out to the sound, to that voice.

_Percival_.

**-VVV-**

There's an ache in every inch of Arthur's body; he feels it beneath his skin, bruises ground into the muscles themselves as he catalogues every twinge, every pain. He keeps his eyes closed against the world, face tight and tense, as he holds on to the guise of sleep for just a little bit longer. Arthur's skin is torn, flayed by scrapes and cuts and longer slashes that criss-cross over his body where his armour failed to protect him. Bandages wrap around his torso tightly, soaked through in some places, dried blood making his skin itchy beneath the cloth.

His face is a mottled bruise, ugly and painful to touch; gingerly, he explores the swollen inside of his mouth with his tongue - one of his back molars is now gone. Slowly, unwillingly, Arthur opens his eyes, cracking them apart the barest amount. His vision blurs, sliding in and out nauseatingly, before snapping into focus. Merlin looms over him, worry crimping his brow as he drips water against Arthur's parched lips. "Where?" Arthur croaks out, his voice a dry rasp, the sound like a bloated rag being yanked haltingly up his throat.

"The main encampment, Arthur," says Merlin, his voice soft and tired. He brushes a damp strand of hair back from Arthur's forehead and he hisses, flinching away as Merlin's long fingers slide against a deep cut over his brow.

"Did we -?" He needs to ask it. He needs to know.

Merlin nods. He bites his lip for a moment, as if considering what to say; Arthur can see his tongue pushed up against his front teeth, thoughtfully. "Mordred," Merlin says, with careful deliberation, "has been slain." There's something oddly colourless to his tone; it's something that hints at secrets, and - strangely - puzzlement.

Arthur is too tired to wonder after it, however. He's too exhausted to try and decipher the enigma of Merlin's monotonous syllables or the brush of consternation that rings his irises. Merlin glances to his left and Arthur follows his line of sight. He sees Gwaine - who is never far from Merlin's side - along with Leon and Elyan hovering wearily nearby. All of them look as bad as Arthur feels.

Leon's arm is in a sling, and he bears a livid slash that travels from the corner of his right eye down to his jaw. It's stitched crudely; Arthur can already tell that it will leave an impressive and ugly scar when it heals. Elyan's face is half-obscured by bandages, which bleed through in some places. He holds himself tenderly, like one does when favouring broken ribs. Gwaine's nose is broken, crooked to the side, and there is a bandage wound around his head. He appears to be missing part of an ear, and Arthur sees that Gwaine leans heavily on a make-shift crutch.

Despite the fact that his knights are essentially walking injuries, Arthur is thankful that they've survived the battle. Relief washes through veins like soothing balm. He looks back to Merlin. "The others?"

"Lancelot's on patrol," says Merlin quickly. He dips the cloth he's holding into a mug and brings it back to Arthur's mouth. "Drink some down," he says, and though his voice is gentle, it is also firm.

Arthur sucks on the wet rag, and the liquid tastes bitter on his tongue. He makes a face, winces, and looks questioningly at Merlin.

"It's a simple potion to help speed along the healing process," Merlin says, reading his expression correctly. "It will also help to dull the pain."

Arthur nods, shifts, and inhales sharply. His breath shudders through the tight press of his lips; he shuts his eyes as his vision wavers, and opens them when the pain begins to settle to something manageable. "Isn't working," he mumbles, and sucks harder on the foul-tasting concoction when Merlin dips the cloth again and presses it against his lips. The liquid slides down his throat slowly, pungent and sour, but even as he thinks it, Arthur can feel the inside of his mouth begin to numb.

After a few more pulls on the cloth, Merlin takes it away and checks Arthur's bandages, his fingers moving across his injuries with a steady, sure touch. Arthur lets his eyes fall shut as Merlin tells Gwaine to hand him some fresh wraps, when he suddenly snaps them back open. "Wait," he says, the sound brittle as it slips from his lips, "wait." He looks at Merlin. "Where is Percival?"

Merlin stills beneath his stare, pauses for a long moment, shifts his gaze away and looks towards the knights. There's something almost guilty in his eyes; Arthur forces himself into a sitting position. "Arthur, don't, your ribs - " Merlin begins, but Arthur interrupts him.

"Where is Percival?" he snaps out, his voice gaining strength with a sudden sweep of white-hot, irrational anger, even as his heart constricts with fear. "Where is he?" he demands again, looking around now. The knights don't meet his eyes.

"Arthur," says Merlin, placing his hand on his leg and rubbing it soothingly, "please don't ask - just get some rest -"

Something drops out from beneath Arthur; perhaps it's his heart. He grabs Merlin's shirt with his good hand, fingers clasping around the material in a tight fist. His hand trembles; he's shaking, though from anger or crippling fear, he doesn't know. "Tell me," he demands, almost shouts, and then Gwaine is between them, pulling Merlin away and out of Arthur's grasp.

Gwaine puts a hand on Merlin's arm and the simple action, the familiarity and the reassurance of the touch, piques Arthur's rage like nothing else. He wants to throw something; he wants to yell. Above all else, he wants to see Percival. His anger doesn't deflate, but his voice cracks as he  
>asks, "<em>Please<em>."

Gwaine's eyes are bloodshot, wide and raw; Merlin's are red-rimmed, shiny with something that Arthur doesn't want to see. "He's badly hurt," says Gwaine in a gruff, thick voice. "He -" a knot catches in the syllables; he looks at Merlin and something passes between them.

"Arthur," says Merlin finally, and looks him straight in the eye. He sounds weary and beaten down, strung out long past the point of exhaustion. "Percival was gravely wounded protecting you. I - "  
>he pauses, takes a breath as if to gather courage and says, "I don't know if he'll make it."<p>

Arthur thinks he shouts, but the actual noise that rips from him is high and broken.

**-VVV-**

Percival lies still on his cot, naked except for a thin blanket that covers him from the waist down. He breathes laboriously; the air rattles in his lung like the sound of bones being thrown. It's a thin noise; shallow. It's not a good sound. It's one that Arthur's heard before; one that he's had to become accustomed to. It's the sound of the dying.

Arthur doesn't want to believe it - he won't believe it. He can't.

He sits by Percival's side, curls his fingers over the scant spaces of unmarred skin; there isn't much. Percival's body is scored with cuts; there are dark patches blooming beneath clammy flesh, hot and flushed with fever. Leeches, bloated with blood, are stuck to his skin to draw up the excess from the internal injuries, but it's not enough. The damage is too extensive; slowly,  
>Percival is bleeding out.<p>

Arthur presses the back of his hand to Percival's brow; his forehead is beaded with moisture. The sweat is rancid, oily, a deep body stink that seems wrung straight from Percival's organs. Arthur wipes a cool cloth gently over Percival's skin and across the lines of his cheeks.

"Damn it, Percival," Arthur whispers, scared furious at the giant of a man who lies prone before him, looking diminished, small - _broken_, "_Damn it."_ He drops the cloth, his fingers  
>trembling too badly to grip it. His hand balls into a fist, and Arthur chokes on a gasp as he watches Percival - <em>his<em> Percival - struggle to live. He wants to scream, to rant. He wants to take back every harsh thing he's ever said to him, but he has no voice for it; he's yelled himself hoarse, telling Merlin just to '_fix him_, goddamn-it, you don't understand!'

**-VVV-**

_Arthur followed Merlin to Percival's tent, limping badly and moving with slow, dogged determination. He'd had to stop several times along the way, winded, the ache of his barely-healing injuries forcing him to pause, teeth gritted, until he could manage the pain and move on._

The encampment was unnaturally hushed; nobody dared to interrupt their king and his sorcerer in that moment. The tension in the air resonated like the after echo of a war drum. It thrummed through Arthur's chest; it rippled beneath his skin.

Merlin pushed aside the tent flap and stood to one side, waiting patiently for Arthur. The bruising beneath Merlin's eyes was a deep, plum colour, ugly against his almost ethereal paleness. As soon as Arthur was inside, he went to Percival's bedside and touched his hand to his cheek. He stood there for a long, long time with his back turned to Merlin, aware of Merlin's eyes upon him, watching his every move; waiting.

Finally, when the silence had stretched on so long that it had become loud in his ears, Arthur spoke. "Use your magic," he said. It was a bare whisper, more thought than sound; more plea than demand.

He heard Merlin suck in a slow breath, almost as if he'd been expecting this. "Sire, please understand -"

"Use your magic," Arthur pleaded, cutting Merlin off. He whirled and looked at Merlin. He knew what must be written across his features: desperation and an ache that no beginning or end. "

Please_Merlin...I beg of you." Arthur, who had never once asked Merlin to use his magic for anything other than the protection of Camelot – never for himself; never for anything personal - watched as Merlin's eyes brimmed with unshed tears. Merlin had always felt too much. Merlin had always known the beat of Arthur's heart, synced with his own; two destinies inextricably twined. Merlin had never denied Arthur anything he'd asked._

And yet this time, as a chasm inside of him began to crack open wide and jagged, Merlin shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," Merlin said, the shakiness of his cadence more honest than words, "Percival's injuries are too grave. There's nothing I can do. Even with my magic I can only do so much...

it_can only do so much." He took a step closer, looking straight into Arthur's eyes as if willing him to understand. He spread his hands, fingers tracing patterns through the air as he conjured an image. As Arthur watched, Merlin plucked threads of colour from the ether and sewed them together, stitching a tapestry into the air that flowed and swirled before his eyes. The image was of a nondescript, faceless man with a red bandage tied around his eyes. "Do you understand?" Merlin asked._

Arthur shook his head, 'no'.

"Death is blind to all," Merlin said, "it comes for us all, eventually. Magic may be able to snatch people back from just on the brink..." He trailed off, dispelling the image with a wave of his hand. "But it cannot pull someone from its embrace." Merlin paused and looked over to Percival. "Percival has drifted too far over the edge. He's in Death's arms and I cannot draw him back - not even with magic."

Arthur took a step back from Merlin, rage and disbelief contorting his features into an ugly mask. "Then what good are you?" Arthur shouted, voice terrible with grief, too open, pared down and stripped to reveal his split, bloody core. "What good are you at all?"

"Arthur - " Merlin said, but Arthur didn't want to hear anymore.

"Get out," he ordered, and took a menacing step towards Merlin. "If you can't help him then

."

Wisely, Merlin didn't argue, and took his leave. However, before he left he looked back at Arthur, and Arthur could see the unnatural wisdom in Merlin's eyes; the strange mix of anguish and resignation that came from knowing too much of the future. "I'm sorry, Arthur," Merlin said quietly, "I'm sorry this had to happen."

Arthur turned away wordlessly, and sunk down into the seat by Percival's cot.

**-VVV-**

Arthur clenches his teeth and feels himself begin to pull apart at the edges. He feels so _helpless_, useless, and there's nothing to do but watch and wait. Arthur can feel his skin practically crawl whenever he thinks of...

He uncurls his fist and buries his face in his hand, palm pushed hard against his eyes. He slumps forward, unable to fight the weariness of his body any longer. He draws in a ragged breath; a harsh sob that is quickly followed by more. Wetness trails down his cheeks. His eyes burn with his tears, but he doesn't try to hold them back.

Arthur feels a hand close over his own and his head snaps up. Percival is looking at him from out of the eye that's not swollen shut, pupils dilated and stained dark with pain. Though it takes some effort, Percival manages to lift the corner of his mouth in a small, strained smile. "Shh," he says, barely forming the words, his voice a wisp of sound - a ghost of his usual booming tones. "None of that."

Percival's thumb brushes away Arthur's tears as Arthur turns and presses his mouth against Percival's palm. He stitches words against the calloused skin - a prayer - the syllables glued together with an aching desperation that pours from him in a rush.

_"Please don't leave me."_

"Never," Percival murmurs, as he looks hopelessly into Arthur's eyes. "_Never._"

**-VVV-**

Sometimes, Percival mutters in his sleep, nonsensical words that slip from his lips in feverish litany. Arthur catches snippets of it, though sometimes the words are twisted in knots he can't untangle, just garbled noise that he thinks might make sense if only he could figure out how it all fit together. Beneath all of it, though, he recognizes one word that Percival repeats over and over: his name.

"Arthur," mutters Percival, eyes moving rapidly behind closed lids, fluttering and blinking at some scene within his mind that Arthur can't see. He keeps his breath wound tight in his chest as he sits vigil by Percival's bedside, watching - hoping - for any change in his condition. No matter what he wishes, however, Percival only continues to worsen, his colour ashen; and his eyes, when open, holding less and less lucidity.

Arthur holds his hand and waits, though he will never say aloud what it is he's waiting for.

Behind him, he hears the tent flap move aside and someone enter. He knows who it is without turning, and though he can taste residual anger lingering in the corners of his mouth, he feels his shoulders slump when Merlin moves beside him and places a hand on his back. Merlin doesn't say anything and neither does Arthur, each taking comfort in the companionship, the hard-earned trust and loyalty that has brought them both through so much.

Eventually, Arthur breaks the silence. "What did you mean earlier?" he asks. "What did you mean when you said: I'm sorry this _had_to happen?"

Merlin removes his hand and tucks it into his pocket, pulling out a strange, smooth grey stone that he carries with him always. Arthur often asks Merlin what significance the stone bears for him, and Merlin never really replies. The closest he ever comes to giving an answer that Arthur can understand, is when he says that the stone is ultimately his fate. There's always something vaguely regretful about the way Merlin says it - like his regret, for whatever reason, is still a long way off - but then he'll smile at Arthur and tell him that it won't really matter, in the end.

Now Merlin fiddles with the stone and holds it in his palm, gazing hard at it as if it held all of the secrets of the universe folded within its layers. "I used to think," he says after a long moment's pause, "that we were all set on a certain path - you and I...Lancelot and Gwen, Gwaine, and Percival."

Arthur's eyes darken at the mention of Guinevere, but then they soften and he releases a breath; though her betrayal wasn't that long ago, he's forgiven her and Lancelot. How could he not? Not when he'd been sharing Percival's bed for months by that time, Arthur's love for him having grown into something which consumed him before he'd even realized it. Still, the memory of them locked together, limb through limb in a tumble of sheets and discarded clothing, is hard to shake.

As if sensing the trend of his thoughts, Merlin says, "Percival changed everything, you know."

Arthur strokes his fingers over Percival's arm, needing to reassure himself with the physical, the feel of him, and glances up at Merlin. Merlin isn't looking at him; he's looking off at some point unseen, eyes distant and ringed with gold. "How?" asks Arthur.

Merlin shakes himself, as if rousing from a brief, though deep dream. "I'm not sure the extent of it," says Merlin, "just that the two of you coming together like you have was unexpected. It rearranged history, or," he says, slipping the stone back into his pocket, "it changes the future."

"Are you saying that he was meant to die here?" Though Arthur just barely manages to keep his voice even, there's a tremble of anger in it; he grips the side of Percival's bed with his good hand, every muscle tense. Merlin takes a moment to answer and when he does, his tone is blunt.

"No sire," he says, "_you_were."

**-VVV-**

Dawn breaks, and as the sunlight crests the horizon, Percival breathes his last breath. His fingers go lax in Arthur's hands, but his eyes stay on Arthur's until they close for the last time. His face, while solemn in death, is peaceful.

Arthur stays frozen for a long moment after, motionless, a part of him unable to believe - he couldn't be..he just _couldn't_- that Percival has passed. He's unsure of how long he sits there by his bedside, clutching at Percival's slowly cooling hand like he could will him back to life.

It feels like years might have passed by the time Merlin comes in again, his expression quiet even as his voice and movements are brisk. It's what Arthur needs right now; something else to think about, something else to focus on, because everything - _everything_- feels too huge. And if he thinks about Percival, if he thinks about how he bore the blows of magic and steel that had been meant for him, he'll break.

So instead, Arthur leaves the tent, Merlin at his side. He moves woodenly - automatically - but it's the best he can manage. His heart feels so heavy; the morning air, fresh and cool, is oppressive. The sun has risen to a point in the sky, about a hand-span above the horizon by the time Arthur reaches the edges of the encampment. Nobody speaks to him and he's glad for it; he doesn't want to hear anyone's voice but Percival's. And Percival's voice is something he will never hear again.

Arthur breathes out and out over the land. A new day is dawning and the evidence is clear: Life goes on, even if Arthur feels like his own has no reason to.

He has his people, his friends, his Merlin. But for everything he has, he feels alone without Percival there beside him to laugh and joke and make him see things through the eyes of a commoner-turned-knight. He is - he was - irreplaceable. There's something empty inside of Arthur, something vast and impressive and too poignant to articulate.

Arthur buries his face in his hands; he doesn't know how to move on.

He doesn't _want_to move on.

**-VVV-**

Arthur makes the decision to lay Percival to rest in the dale he played in as a child, slaying pretend dragons and playing at being the king that he is now and had been destined to become.

At first, he can barely visit the grave; he can't stand to think of Percival, brave and loyal to a fault, laying in the cold. hard ground. So for months, Arthur avoids the dale altogether; it's easier that way, even if it does make the gnawing ache in his heart more pronounced.

One day, however, in the early months of spring, when he's had enough of court and royal advisors and even Merlin; when he's sick to his stomach of all politics and court intrigue, courtiers and retainers clambering over each other in a bid for his attention, he leaves the castle. He realizes where he's headed long before he gets there, but somehow, on this day, his steps flow easily across the well-trodden path. As Arthur strides over uneven ground that he'd played on as a child - the same ground upon which he would later train his knights in preparation for battle - he feels the knot in his stomach begin to unwind.

He pauses once at the edge of the clearing, his eyes falling on the single grave that rests there. The headstone is modest and by all definitions plain; nothing fancy or garish - nothing to indicate that it is the grave of one of the bravest knights Camelot has ever known.

Small white flowers have sprung up over Percival's grave, so plentiful they colour the entire expanse a pure and snowy white. For a moment the grief that wells up inside of him is so strong and fresh, that Arthur can scarcely breathe. He falls heavily to one knee, eyes squeezed shut against the onslaught of tears that come, no matter how hard he tries to stop them.

Arthur grieves with his hands fisted in the flowers that mark the final resting place of one of the best men he's ever known. And it hurts to think that if he'd never known Percival, that it would have been _him_lying here instead. But Percival loved him with everything he had; he never held back from Arthur. In some ways, Arthur suspects that Percival never knew how.

Percival loved Arthur enough to change the course of fate. He loved him enough to give him the chance to see his destiny played out as it should have been. And yet...and _yet_...

Arthur rises and moves forward to brush away the flowers that have grown abundant around the base of the headstone, obscuring the words etched into the marble. He traces his fingers over the smooth stone, pressing lightly against the grooves of the etching as he silently mouths the words he knows by heart:

_He was my North, my South, my East and West,  
>My working week and my Sunday rest<br>My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;  
>I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.<em>

Arthur had two years with Percival; two years of knowing what it was like to hold nothing back - two years of allowing himself to love someone with the entirety of his being.

He wouldn't have traded those two years for anything in the world.

It's enough.

(The End.)


End file.
